Aberdeen
by T.Pike
Summary: In response to the anomaly tracker, Ford and Stan sail to the north Atlantic to investigate. Their long-overdue adventures begin with the search for a vanishing island. Part 1 of "Redacted" series.
1. Swimming Ashore

" _I have something to confess, also."_

" _Hm?"_

" _I…You remember that day at the beach?"_

" _Y-yeah."_

" _It was me. I took it."_

" _What? But-why? How-?"_

" _I wanted to see you. To talk with you. I didnae know how else I could—you would've run away with the others. I thought, if I took it, y'know, maybe…"_

" _Maybe what? Maybe you'd the chance to sweep me off ma feet? Make me swoon and forget everything? Take me away an—?"_

" _I wanted you! I wanted you to love me as much as I love you! But I wanted you to actually love me, not feel that you had ta. I thought you—I dunnae—I thought I could make you love me enough that you'd forgive me."_

"… _I dunnae…"_

"' _Course you're gonnae be peevish. I hoped you'd just…by now…you'd love me enough to forgive me."_

"…"

"…"

" _I think…I think I do…"_

" _You do?"_

* * *

The sky had been grey for days. It was a total mystery to Stan; despite his youthful travels, he'd never been anywhere that had perpetually grey skies with no rain. Ford assured him that this was the way of the north Atlantic, often noting some of the stranger meteorological phenomena he'd encountered on his own journeys for comparison. Truthfully, he'd learned more about the multiverse by simply complaining about the weather than he ever had in asking his brother outright.

"It has to rain soon," he grumbled. Leaning against the Stan o' War II's railing, Stan waited expectantly for the inevitable response.

Ford flipped through a notebook. "Seems like it," he agreed. "The barometric pressure has dipped."

"So, what, batten down the hatches?" Stan chuckled to himself, far more amused at himself than Ford was.

"No need for that—we'll likely miss it." Sighing, he stuffed the notebook into his pocket. He fiddled with his extra fingers mindlessly, as he often did when unsure. "Something isn't right about this anomaly."

Stan snorted. "Yeah? That right?"

Ford actively chose to ignore him. "According to the map, we should be directly on the island at this very moment." He vaguely gestured to the water around them. "As you can see, we're not."

"Huh." Stan glanced up at his brother. The concern immediately washed from his own face when he noticed that the tilt in Ford's frown indicated annoyance more than anything else. "So, what's the word, then, Sixer?"

"I did read some accounts of the island that indicated it may move," Ford said. His irritable frown intensified. "Those accounts were…less credible…so I thought to ignore them. Apparently, I was wrong."

"You? Wrong? Nah." Pushing off the railing, Stan suppressed a teasing laugh.

"We'll dock in the nearest port until the storm passes," Ford decided aloud. After withdrawing his journal from his coat, he searched his pockets for a pen. "Maybe some of the locals will know something useful."

Stan stretched. "Where are we porting?"

"We're too far south to reach the Shetlands quickly." Ford abandoned his pen quest to check his GPS. "We can probably reach the Orcadian mainland in a couple of hours. Birsay would be our best bet, as long as we avoid the Brough of Birsay."

"The what?"

"Brough—it's an island."

Stan nodded once, then paused. "Why are we avoiding it, then?"

"It's uninhabited. Won't be of much use." Mindlessly, Ford puttered with his GPS.

Stan shrugged. Seemed reasonable.

* * *

Admittedly, Stan did miss dry land. He loved the boat, the ocean, the constant hunt for adventure, and the bonding time with Ford—of course he did—but he'd never been on the open ocean before. At least, as far as he remembered; a good portion of his life remained patchy in his memory. Maybe he had been. If nothing else, it was the first time he could remember being out on the open water. Either way, he very much enjoyed the feel of solid ground beneath his feet again.

Solid, but not dry, he noted as he followed Ford off the pier. The rain had started by the time the island came into view. Now that they were walking into the town, the downpour became torrential; the twins may well have swum to the nearest pub for how drenched they had become. The worst part?

"Of course it stopped raining as soon as we came inside." Ford complained loud enough to draw the attention of those at the nearest tables; he didn't notice, being too fixated on wringing out his shirt and coat. "This is worse than the Dimension of Comically Inappropriate Weather."

If Ford were capable of such a thing, Stan would have thought his brother was joking. He pulled the knit cap off his head, wrung it out, and replaced it with a laugh.

"Relax, Poindexter, it's just water. Not like you're gonna melt or nothin'." He pulled his brother up to the bar and pushed him into one of the open seats.

Ford took a napkin and cleaned his glasses. "Frustrating," he murmured. "I'm sure we could have weathered the storm on the Stan o' War II."

"Wasn't making us any less lost."

For a moment, Ford considered responding to his brother; he instead chose to fish his journal from within his jacket. It, fortunately, was quite dry: thirty years in the multiverse taught him to line his journal pocket with water-repelling materials. He must have lost three makeshift journals to interdimensional water incidents before figuring out that trick. While his brother ordered their dinner, Ford flipped to the next open page.

 _North Atlantic Anomaly, Hildaland_

 _Following our encounters with the deep-sea kraken and sighting St. Elmo's Fire (I wish I'd gotten a picture of it for Dipper and Mabel!), my anomaly detector received readings of strange activity nearby. I checked it against the GPS coordinates, which indicated that something weird existed on an island north of Scotland, either amongst the Faroes, the Shetlands, or Orkney. I checked a few modern maps and sea charts and found nothing at the coordinates given. A bit more research unearthed a couple of older maps marking an island there. The traditional lore around this island indicates that the island may not be always present, or that it shifts location, or that it requires some manner of specific practice to make available. A storm prevented us from properly investigating, though we spent the night at the coordinates where Hildaland should have been._

"Write in your diary later, Ford." Stan prodded his brother in the side of his head. "Have a drink."

Ford blinked.

"Fannie said you looked cold." Stan shoved the glass at his brother. "On the house."

"How kind." Ford smiled and sipped at the potent liquor. It warmed him quickly.

"Good, right? Think it's some local stuff or something." He too sipped at his whiskey. The twins sat silently until the bartender returned with their dinner.

"Feelin' any warmer?" she asked. "Rain'll sneak up on ya like that if you dunnae pay it mind."

"Been telling him for a week that it was gonna rain," Stan said through his food. "Too busy looking for monsters to pay attention."

"You were looking for them, too, Stanley." Ford pointedly avoided his brother's eyes.

"Monster hunters, eh? Not what we normally get around here," Fannie mused to herself.

"Researchers, actually."

"Adventurers," Stan corrected.

Ford rolled his eyes. "We're investigating anomalies."

Fannie made a curious noise.

"Weird things. Fought a kraken about a week ago." Stan smirked. "Punched it right in the face."

"Krakens don't really have faces, Stanley."

"So, what brings you around here, then? Last I checked, we donnae have krakens." Fannie's singsong accent brushed away any sarcasm she may have intended.

Ford debated on precisely what to tell her. After all, he wasn't certain himself what they were after—it could have been anything, really, especially considering that they'd found nothing—

"I dunno. Some place called…" Stan peered over his brother's shoulder at the journal. "Hildaland?"

Fannie nodded. "I dunnae much about Hildaland, just the same sorts of fairy tales ev'rybody else gets. Maybe Cap'n Jolly knows summat."

"Captain Jolly?" Stan repeated, incredulous. That couldn't be his name.

"Just summat we call him. Batty ol' codger, says he used to be a pirate." Fannie laughed brightly. "Got a lot of loony stories, he does, not all just his own. Let me get him." She stepped away a few paces to lean over the bar, calling out to the far corners of the room. "Oi! Cap'n! Got yer kin here!"

"Aye, comin'." The rough, gravelly voice soon came to have an owner: an old fisherman (old enough to make the twins feel young), draped in a hefty wool coat and tweed cap, shuffling with a walking stick and a slight limp in his left leg. He dropped himself into the seat on Ford's other side. After a moment taking in the twins, he laughed, mouth wide enough to reveal a couple of missing teeth and a single gold tooth. "Bit old to be adventuring, aren'tcha?"

"Well—"

"You're a bit old to be asking that question, aren't you?" Stan sassed right back. Ford honestly wasn't positive whether his brother had actually been offended.

"Donnae be sore, lad." The captain scratched his beard. "Nae, what is it yer needing?"

Stan made to respond, but Ford cut him off. "We're researchers, investigating anomalies—supernatural things, folklore, rumors, and such. We heard some stories about an island out in the north Atlantic where some cryptids might live. When we went to look for it—"

"Ya cannae find it," Captain Jolly finished with a nod. "It donnae like to sit still."

Surprised, Stan and Ford exchanged hopeful glances. "It is real, then?"

"Aye."

The question floodgate opened. It was like they were children again.

"How do we get there?"

"What lives there?"

"Have you seen it before?"

"Is there treasure?"

"Why isn't it mapped?"

"Where does it go when it isn't there?"

"Why does it move?"

"Were you really a pirate?"

"Stanley, that's not important right now—"

"Lads, lads, easy." The captain chuckled, holding a hand up to settle the twins. "I cannae answer all that. Nae, sounds like you lot wannae git there."

"Absolutely!"

"Well, I cannae help you."

Stan balked. "What the hell?"

"Look at me! I'm too old fer the sea." Captain Jolly leaned back in his chair. "I do know a barra looking fer work. Wee one, but he knows the waters. Like he came from the sea."

"Okay, so who is this…uh…barra?"

Captain Jolly motioned to the far side of the pub, where he'd sat earlier. "Sean! C'mere ya barra!"

Sean turned out to be a teenager in dull, ratty clothes two sizes too big. His shaggy dark hair tried to hide under a knit cap.

Ford was wholly unimpressed. "Is he even old enough to work?"

"Been working fer me fer a year now. Just looks like a wee bairn."

Sean scratched at the back of his neck, saying nothing.

"Introduce yourself, barra."

Sean's stormy eyes flicked between the twins before settling on his tattered sneakers. "Name's Sean. I'm, erm, twenty-three. Moved here from Kirkwall."

Ford remained unimpressed. "Do you know anything about Hildaland? Or disappearing islands?"

"Hildaland? Sure, know a bit. I've been to the disappearing islands." Sean shifted. "Erm, assuming you believe in all that Otherworld and such."

Ford's frown lessened slightly, the curiosity softening his suspicions. "Perhaps—"

"You, uh, wanna help us out, then, kid?" Stan blurted out the question, not glancing at his brother for confirmation afterward. "Could use another set of hands and, um, couldn't hurt to have someone who knows where we're headed."

"Stanley, what?" Ford had no further words to his question.

Stan shifted. A frown wormed onto his face. "Look, Poindexter, it couldn't hurt. Less work for us—you can spend more time writing in your nerd book. And if he knows about the island…"

After a searching look, Ford relented. "Fine."


	2. Anchors Aweigh

" _D'ya still have it?"_

" _Well, yes."_

" _Can…can I…?"_

" _I dunnae. I cannae give it back. I cannae."_

" _Please—at least let me see it. I wanna know it's safe."_

"… _Here. I've kept it in this bin."_

" _Here…the whole time…"_

" _Donnae! Donnae touch it!"_

" _It's mine, Abby!"_

" _Ye cannae take it—ye cannae leave me!"_

"… _Abby…"_

" _Ye cannae leave. I need you. More'n anything. More'n air. More'n water. More'n sunlight…"_

" _I donnae—"_

" _I cannae live without you! Please, donnae…"_

" _I wonnae go, I promise. Here—put it away, then. I just…I wanted to see it, is all. Put the bin away."_

" _You-you wonnae go? You promise?"_

" _I never planned to."_

* * *

Ford paced in the cabin. The torrential downpour had returned, drowning out the sound of his footsteps. Every now and again, he glanced at his brother, who had absorbed himself in a book (Ford noted that it was the book that he'd put aside himself earlier when his thoughts distracted him). He didn't understand. Why would he possibly—?

"You're gonna wear a hole in the floor if you don't stop pacing," Stan said. He glanced up from the fairy tales to meet Ford's gaze. "What's eating you?"

"Why did you offer for that boy to join us?" Ford's question sounded more confounded than irritated. He clasped his hands behind back, debating whether to continue berating his brother.

For his part, Stan simply stared. His eyes eventually dropped back to the book in his hands. "I dunno. Something about him…felt…familiar?" His brow furrowed and his lip turned downward. He searched his still foggy memory for a fuller explanation, even returning his eyes to Ford as if asking for help. "Still a little unclear about some stuff."

Ford matched Stan's unsure expression. His brother's memories were still, for the most part, haphazard at best. Between himself, Dipper, and Mabel, their knowledge of Stan's life only covered about eighteen years with detail; the forty he'd spent on his own came back much slower, as there was no way to prompt them, no way to iterate them with any realness. It seemed (to Ford, anyway) that the most random, minor things would trigger these memories that Ford couldn't expound upon.

Stan laughed. "I guess I remember what it feels like to be hungry. Couldn't really tell ya why, to be honest, but I have some ideas."

Ford felt a pang of guilt, but said nothing. There was nothing for him to say; he could only apologize so many times before Stan yelled at him to shut his mouth.

"Eh, it's not important." Stan reached over to put the book on Ford's desk. "So, when's this kid supposed to show up?"

"Should be soon." Ford paused. "Do you think he'd really walk all the way out here in this storm?"

Stan frowned again. "I hope not—"

A knock managed to sound over the rain. Startled, Ford jerked at the noise. He recovered after a moment and opened the door. Drenched from the storm, Sean was swimming in his oversized clothing. Ford had to admit, in this pathetic state, the boy too reminded him of his brother that night, all those years ago.

"You're dripping," Stan stated. His voice had a hint of a lilt to it, as if he were still considering whether or not the comment was a joke.

Sean looked lost. "Sorry. Forgot mah um—"

Stan shook his head. "Don't worry about it, kid. I'm sure we have something dry for you to wear." He rose from his spot on the bed and traveled to the trunk. After retrieving the smallest things he could readily find, he tossed them into the bathroom. "Go change before you get sick."

Sean nodded and hurried into the other room, trying to minimize the amount of water that he dripped on the floor. When the door clicked shut, Ford sighed.

"You're such a softie," he teased. Ignoring his brother's dismissive huff, he picked up his pacing again. "We have a bit of time before the kids call. Hopefully, we'll be on our way by that point. If Sean really does know where this island is, we shouldn't have much trouble."

"That time already, huh?" Stan dropped back into his bunk.

Ford nodded. As he made to respond, the bathroom door clicked open and allowed Sean to return to the cabin's room.

"Better?"

"Yea. Thanks." Sean awkwardly pulled up the excess fabric on the trousers to move nearer. Unsure where to put himself, he decided to set himself on the floor beside the bunk beds, out of Ford's pacing path.

Ford clasped his hands behind his back, a habitual motion around new people. "Well, Sean, I'll admit that I'm struggling to find anything solid on this island. You mentioned its connection to some 'Otherworld' yesterday, didn't you?"

"Yea." Rolling up the sleeves of Ford's sweater, Sean kept his eyes trained on the ground. "It's an isle of all sortsa creatures. Mostly fae. Ye get some other ones, too—kelpies and banshees and grindylow and selkies and such." A smile tugged at the corner of his lip. "Rumors are, anyhow. I dunnae, mahself. Didnae see much."

"What did you see?"

"Coupla brownies, summat what might've been a shellycoat, and a few birds and seals."

Ford's interest visibly piqued. "Really?" At Sean's affirmative nod, he stopped pacing. "Fascinating. How did you come across the island?"

"Lost in a squall." Sean finally finished rolling up his sleeves. "First time, anyhow. Stumbled across it out fishing a coupla times. Only been there twice by mah own choosing."

Ford's brow raised. "Go on."

"I dunnae exactly how I found it," he admitted, finally lifting his gaze. Sean glanced between the twins, as if checking for signs of disbelief. "I just…sorta knew. I can find it, but I cannae tell ya how."

Ford frowned. He said nothing, instead stepping over to the desk where his journal lay open. After again locating his pen, he began scribbling notes.

Stan rolled his eyes. "As long as you can find it again, I don't think it matters how you do it."

"Don't be ridiculous, Stanley, of course it matters how." The pen continued scratching against the paper. "We'll have to make careful observations and keep detailed notes to make sure we can find it again."

"If you say so, Poindexter."

"Do you know if there's a pattern to the island's movements, Sean?" Ford's eyes flicked up for only a moment. "Any causal relationship to lunar cycles, tides, oceanic currents, seasonal changes, weather patterns…?"

The Scotsman shrugged. "I dunnae. Easier to find in winter."

"How fortuitous." Ford finished scribbling in his journal and shut it with a snap. "Do you know how far away the island is?"

"Not more'n a couple of days. Round trip shouldnae be more'n a week."

"Excellent." Ford turned to his brother. "Ready to go?"

Stan nodded. "Stocked up in town this morning. We can shove off whenever. I think—" A bubbly, electronic jingle interrupted from within Stan's pocket. He withdrew the smartphone, giving it the searching stare of one wholly unfamiliar with technology. A warm smile wormed onto his face as he answered it. "Hey pumpkin."

An ear-piercing squeal greeted him from the speaker, loud enough for the others to hear across the room. As the chattering died down to be only audible to Stan, Ford leaned over to Sean to speak in a hushed voice.

"Our great niece and nephew," he clarified simply.

Sean didn't need further explanation. "Donnae mind. I'll get us on our way." He hopped to his feet, struggling to keep from tripping over his trousers. At Ford's dubious glance, he gave a sheepish grin. "Donnae mind. Go'n chat with yer bairnes." Sean shuffled out of the cabin, where the rain had finally ceased.

"How 'bout a hand, there, Sixer?"

Ford turned at his brother's exasperated sigh; the smartphone was held out to him expectantly, Mabel's and Dipper's voices calling out contradictory directions simultaneously. Ford struggled not to laugh as he took the phone—Stan seemed incapable of mastering even the most basic functions of modern technology. At least Ford's years in the multiverse helped him adapt to foreign devices. A few taps on the screen brought up the teenage twins.

"Hi Grunkle Ford!" they greeted in unison, waving excitedly. The two of them seemed to be walking through a suburban neighborhood, backpacks slung over their shoulders.

"Hey kids." He returned their wave as he sat beside his brother. "You don't need to call so early."

"But we miss you!" Dipper protested. "It's not that early."

"Dipper has a big test today and he was freaking out about it—you need to tell him to chill out!" Mabel nudged her brother. "You're gonna be totally fine, Dip Dop."

"Mabel!"

"Test?" Ford repeated. "Well, Dipper, did you study?"

Dipper nodded. "I've been studying all week."

"You've done all you can do to prepare for it. You're a bright boy, Dipper; I have faith that you'll do well."

"Thanks, Grunkle Ford."

"And if all else fails," Stan added, "you can always fake your death."

"Stanley!"

Ford's chastising didn't much matter; the kids and his brother were laughing too hard to pay attention. When their mirth died down, Dipper piped up again.

"So where are you guys now?"

"Still in the north Atlantic; we're in Orkney at the moment," Ford said. "Just for the night to weather out a storm."

"We're heading out today in search of a moving island of some kind or another," Stan added brightly. "A whole island of things to bring back to the Shack."

"You wouldn't want to bring any of that nonsense back to Gravity Falls."

"What's on the island? Oh! Oh! Is there a beast in a castle that's really a prince transformed by a sorceress' spell?" Mabel bounced around Dipper, too thrilled at the idea to walk properly.

Dipper rolled his eyes. "He said Orkney, not Orleans—there's no prince."

"Not with that attitude, there isn't."

"Hm. I don't know about any princes, but Sean said there's a lot of fairies." Stan rubbed at the back of his neck. "Will that work for you, pumpkin?"

Mabel squealed, delighted. "Bring one home for me, Grunkle Stan! Can their magic fairy dust make me fly?"

"Doubtful," Ford murmured, considering. "Though I haven't had much of an opportunity to research fairies. Their physiology doesn't lend itself to flight by any natural laws of physics…"

"Wait, who's Sean?" Dipper's brows knit in confusion. For her part, Mabel was too busy celebrating the idea of fairy-induced flight to pay attention. "Did you guys meet another monster hunter?"

"Nah." Stan waved the question off. "He's a local kid, says he can help us find the place. Plus, your Grunkle Ford needs all the help he can get. He's old, you know, can't do all the things he used to."

"We're the same age, Stanley! And it's not like you know how to find the island, either."

"Not really my department, Poindexter."

Ford punched his brother's shoulder. Not the most eloquent way to win an argument, but a victory nonetheless.


	3. East Texas, Actually

" _You said you'd never leave."_

" _I'm not—"_

" _You need me, donnae you? More'n air, more'n water, more'n sunlight—you said that, remember?"_

" _I never said none of those things! You said that!"_

" _Then you donnae love me?"_

" _I never said that, either! What're you on about?"_

" _But it's true, innit? You wanna leave, you donnae love me, you donnae need me—you aren't denying it!"_

" _That's all I been doing!"_

" _You ain't said it!"_

" _None of that's true, Abby."_

"…"

" _Abby?"_

" _Put the bin away. Whenever you touch it, I dunnae, I think you're trying to leave. Donnae touch it."_

" _I'm not leaving, I told you. It reminds me…"_

"…"

"… _Fine. I…I donnae need it, long as I have you."_

* * *

The second day out at sea brought sunlight. Actual bright, warm sunlight. Not a single cloud in the sky. Ford hadn't realized how much he missed it in the perpetual overcast of the north Atlantic. Despite the brilliance of the sun, he could feel the chill; a slight breeze slipped through his life vest, his coat, and the knits of his sweater, causing him to shudder. It actually felt nice.

Stan leaned against the railing beside him, occasionally huffing out a tune on his harmonica. He wasn't bad—not that he was good, either; rather, his playing (when it was playing and not just noise) was pleasantly passable, and was a nice break from the wind and the waves. Strangely, it was a talent that Ford never knew he had. When he'd asked, unfortunately, Stan could only shrug.

"You finally got your sunshine," Ford mused, taking a moment to glance up from his journal.

Stan nodded, smiling as he pulled the harmonica away from his face. "I can't remember the last time I was this happy to see the sun."

Ford considered the same thing. He tapped his pen against the corner of the journal. "Maybe in the Dimension of Solids." At his brother's prompting eyebrow raise, he explained. "Well, as you can probably guess by the name, everything in that dimension is a solid. The closest thing to a liquid had the consistency of gelatin—I 'drank' cherry Jell-O for the three days I spent there, it was awful. The ocean—good God, Stanley, the only other time I was ever so frustrated was in the M Dimension—the ocean was so choppy and I was nearly constantly sick. It didn't help that it was raining, either."

"How does it rain if everything is solid?"

"It rains Jell-O, Stanley, keep up." Ford shook his head, trying to ignore his brother's struggles not to burst into laughter. "As you can imagine, I hated it. Everything was awful. Two days of this, I was at the end of my rope, and finally we reached the shore. It was a desert, but it was dry land, and there was sunshine. Not a cloud in the sky. I could have cried from happiness."

Stan chuckled, restraining his amusement at his brother's misery. "Jesus, Sixer, you sure you're not making this up?"

"If only. The multiverse is infinitely vast and immensely bizarre." He glanced aside, watching his brother futz with his harmonica. "What about you? Any memories?"

"Now that you mention it, actually, yeah." A weird grin slanted his lip. "Kinda fuzzy, though."

"Tell me what you can remember. It'll help."

Stan nodded. "It sorta came back when you mentioned the desert—the bright light and the dust and the heat. I could've melted, it was so hot. It must've been summer: the sun was out for so long, like night wasn't a thing anymore."

"Do you remember where?"

"Southwest, somewhere. Maybe Arizona or New Mexico. It wasn't around the time you sent the postcard, though, I was younger. I was finally old enough to drink, so I could stop making phony I.D.s to get into bars." When he noticed Ford's dubious glance, he rolled his eyes. "It was a stressful time in my life, okay? Not like you haven't been carrying around a flask since you came back through the portal."

"It's not a flask—"

"That might work on the kids, Sixer, but I know what whiskey smells like." Stan ignored his brother's uncomfortable shift. "Anyway, I remember the I.D. situation because I was drunk for this. I got to the point where the bartender had me thrown out, and I wandered a bit. Didn't have a place to stay, y'know, and I figured I shouldn't be driving anywhere—not that I had any place to drive to, but, uh, yeah, I was wandering around town, and I came across what I thought was a dog. So, I went to pet it."

Ford pinched the bridge of his nose. "Stanley, no."

"Absolutely. It apparently was a coyote—I hadn't even seen one before that—and it was not happy that I bothered it." He laughed, both amused and a bit anxious as the rest of the memory filtered through his mind. "I must've spent half the night running from it, and then I passed out and didn't wake up for almost 36 hours. I don't think I slept as soundly as I did that night for years."

Mirroring Stan's expression, Ford forced a laugh. "At least you remembered, that's, uh, something." He waved off his own comment. "Something good, I mean; your memory is picking up extraordinarily quickly, especially with a lack of assistance."

"Sorry." Stan forced himself to smile. "Didn't think it was going to be a bad memory, though I guess I should have figured that as soon as I remembered I was drinking."

"Don't be ridiculous, Stanley; I'm sure you have to have some good memories from drinking."

"Eh, I'm all tapped out of memories at the moment." Snickering, Stan knocked on the side of his head. "Can't work the ol' brain too hard, right?"

"I suppose." Sighing, Ford returned to his journal, and scribbled a couple of notes. The shush of the wind and the waves and the scratching of the pen on paper filled the silence between them. Eventually, Stan made a curious noise.

"How far do you think we are? From the island?"

Ford blinked. "Not sure. Sean?"

There was no answer.

The twins turned toward the bow of the ship. Sitting with his legs dangling off the side, the Scotsman stared out toward the line where the sky met the sea, seemingly unaware that he'd been called. His stormy eyes were unfocused, distantly watching the sunlight glimmer on the water. He was completely still. Just him and the ocean.

"Sean?"

He remained motionless.

Stan coughed before raising his voice. "Sean!"

Sean jerked out of his reverie, one hand gripping his cap and the other, the rail. Once he remembered where he was and who called to him, he relaxed. A sheepish smile softened his features. "Sorry, didnae hear you."

"How're we doing?"

"Eh?"

"The island, kid, how're we doing?"

Sean's eyes returned to the horizon. Neither Stan nor Ford could quite tell if he was visibly searching or simply thinking. His nose twitched when he returned his attention to the twins. "Coupla hours. Before night."

Stan nodded, silently dismissing the Scotsman from the conversation. Sean took his leave by resituating and rolling up the sleeves of his too-big sweatshirt. When he glanced back at his brother, Stan was beaming.

"We're close," he commented happily. "You ready, Poindexter?"

Ford nodded, incapable of stopping his own excitement from creeping onto his face. "How do you think one would go about catching a fairy? Do you think they're smart enough to avoid butterfly nets?"

"They better not be; I don't think I could come up with a better plan." Musing to himself, Stan put his harmonica back to his lips. He played a few experimental notes before Ford absorbed himself in his journal, finishing the details on his sketch of their navigator.

 _Sean says we should be reaching our destination soon, though I'm unsure how he knows. Despite my nearly constant observation, I haven't noticed any out of the ordinary behavior that would indicate his navigational methods. He hasn't taken his eyes off the water since we left port, but for the moments he's spent helping with the ship or eating with Stanley and me._

 _That's not to say that I haven't noted any odd behavior. I've listed a few of the more interesting ones here:_

 _His diet seems to consist of nearly exclusively fish, which neither is healthy nor explanatory of his (perhaps?) stunted growth. (My drawing is accurate to his appearance—he swears to be 23, but hardly looks older than Dipper and Mabel!)_

 _He doesn't readily respond when Stanley or I call for him when he's navigating(?)—it's so difficult to tell what he's doing, precisely, when not speaking with us directly. He appears not to hear us without raised voices, though he hears Stan's harmonica acutely. Not sure if naturally hard of hearing or if his hearing has been impaired._

 _Apparently immune to the sub-Arctic chill that constantly has me wearing three coats. (Admittedly, I do take to chill easily, but even Stanley complains of the cold!) Sean only wears his threadbare sweatshirt—this morning, he even claimed to feel hot in the heated cabin. Initially I worried that he may have hypothermia, but his temperature was a healthy 98.0._

 _He sleeps sitting upright. I have no explanation for why, particularly in light of the fact that he will not sleep laying down._

 _I think he sleeps with his eyes open, but I haven't been able to confirm that suspicion._

 _By all observation, Sean is doing nothing to properly navigate us to our destination. When I asked, all he could say was that he felt it in one direction or another. Is he particularly attuned to anomalies or weirdness? Does he know where the island is offhand? Or is he making it up? Can't be sure until we reach the island._


	4. Black Sand Beaches and Mystic Rivers

" _I donnae need you."_

"…"

" _D'ja hear? I donnae need ya."_

" _Yea?"_

"… _Yes."_

" _You got nowhere to go. No money. No family. No one what cares for you but me."_

" _That's not true. I-I still have family."_

" _Yea? How long's it been? Years, wee barra. Yonks an' yonks. They think you're gone."_

"…"

" _You cannae leave. You cannae survive on yer own. Cannae care for yourself."_

" _I can."_

" _You cannae. And you donnae wannae."_

" _I-I do."_

" _That why you haven't left yet?"_

" _No. You have what's mine."_

" _I'm keeping it safe. Keeping you safe."_

" _You're keeping me here—"_

" _Donnae be dramatic."_

" _I'm—you laughin'?"_

" _Yer so funny when you get like this—I cannae help it!"_

"… _What?"_

"…"

" _Abby!"_

" _I'm sorry. It's too funny when you get all worked up over yer wee paranoia."_

" _Paranoia?! I'm—I'm not some loon!"_

"' _Course yer not."_

" _I'm not!"_

* * *

The horizon burned in the sunset, water and sky reflecting reds and oranges where the sun disappeared. Neither Stan nor Ford initially saw it when Sean first spotted their destination, but their skepticism dissipated when the shore peered over the horizon. The twins' excitement grew exponentially as the Stan o' War II drew nearer: as the sand came into view, as the trees and foliage became distinct, as the salty scent of the sea mingled with floral aromas, when the very feeling of weirdness descended upon them—all bathed in progressively waning light. They were practically giddy by the time they reached the island.

Stan was the first to disembark, again ecstatic to have dry land beneath his feet. Ford came next, hot on his brother's heels, throwing his usual trepidations to the wind. By the time Sean finished ensuring that the boat wouldn't float away in their absence and joined them, the Pines had regained much of their composure.

"This what you were lookin' fer?" he asked, standing a short distance away from them. For the first time since they left, he had his back to the sea.

"I hope so," Ford answered. His journal remained stowed away in his coat pocket as he surveyed their surroundings. The beach didn't stretch far inland; heavy brush started only a few yards from the waves. Strangely, the foliage was dense enough to prevent him from seeing much further.

Stan kicked at the black sand beneath his feet. "Can't imagine what else we might be looking for." He shot an amused grin at his brother. "It's an island. It's weird. What else would it be?"

"Not gonnae find much here," Sean said. "Most all the creatures are more inland."

"Are there many dangerous creatures here? Is it unsafe after dark?" Ford finally tore his eyes from the decidedly deciduous forest.

Sean shrugged. "Nae? I donnae think there's much what's gonna hunt ya here."

"Much?"

"Take yer fill of the beach fer now. Might be best to explore come morning."

Ford nodded. "Likely for the best."

For the remainder of the day's light, the Pines twins scoured the beach, taking in what details they could. Another page in Ford's journal filled with information, a totally unfiltered description of the island. When it became too dark, the group returned to the Stan o' War II, intending to sleep through the night; neither he nor his brother could rest much, both too thrilled with their new discovery.

* * *

Dawn came after Stan and Ford began their morning rituals. Stan, in fact, was on his third cup of coffee by the time the sun joined them, and Ford was on his fourth by the time Sean finally woke. He groggily readied breakfast and joined the twins at the table. Stan was the only one to greet him properly; Ford, engrossed in his work, only managed a slight salutary grunt.

"Hey, kid, you wouldn't happen to know the layout of the island, would you?" Stan peered over his paper at him. "Or if there's some sort of map or something?"

Sean prodded at his kippers with his fork. "Er…I dunnae…I may be able to help you find the sorta stuff you might wanna see. I told ya, I never really explored this place. Been yonks an' yonks anyhow…" He yawned. "Do what I can."

Stan finished his coffee. "That's better than nothing, I guess. Grab your jacket and meet me and Ford on the beach when you're ready."

"'Ford and me,'" his brother mindlessly corrected. "Grammar, Stanley."

Stan groaned. "Seriously, Poindexter?"

"Grammar is important—"

"Nah." Stan waved off his brother's explanation. "Let's get going." He grabbed for his coat, though he stopped at Sean's dismissive motion. "Huh?"

"It's too warm, don'tcha think?" Sean shed his oversized sweatshirt like a second skin, dropping it where it fell beside his chair. He was still drowning in his threadbare grey shirt. "Donnae have much need for a coat."

Stan made a nonplussed noise. "Guess so. Didn't really notice."

Ford stopped writing, finally lifting his gaze from his journal. "That can't be right. We're near the Arctic Circle and it's November. It's impossible that the weather could be so warm."

"Tell that to your thermometer." Stan tapped the glass thermometer on the wall. "It says it's 63, maybe 64 out."

"What? No." Shocked, Ford flew to the thermometer and checked the mercury. Just as his brother said—63.5. "How odd."

"Always balmy here." Sean dropped his fork, joining the twins in the cabin's doorway. "And sunny."

Stan snorted a laugh. "Could do with some sunshine. C'mon, Sixer, let's get going."

When once again the three stood on the black sand beach, Stan bounced on his toes. A real-life undiscovered island. He and Ford had their encounters on the high seas, but this—documenting uncharted lands, discovering new creatures, likely finding some sort of treasure—this was exactly what he'd imagined when they were kids. Maybe not so old, but he could forgive that. The day smelled of adventure and he couldn't wait any longer.

"Easy, Stanley, the island isn't going anywhere." Ford snickered at his own joke, flinching when his brother punched him in the arm. "What should we hunt first? I'm very interested in shellycoat, but it might not be the most auspicious start to our exploration. Perhaps something less likely to mislead us, like a fairy or a gnome or something."

Stan rolled his eyes. "We have gnomes at home, and I'm pretty sure you're not going to like them any better out here. I'm sure I won't."

"Fair enough."

"There's a whole river fullah creatures and such, northaways here." Sean gestured in the appropriate direction. "Mind you donnae follow the will o' wisps or screams."

"Screams?" Ford repeated, both curious and concerned. "What screams?"

"Bit of this and that." Sean motioned for the twins to follow him as he continued. "There's some banshees what live there. Shellycoat, too, they get active with visitors. Some of the sprites'll holler fer attention. Then there's the kelpie—well, they donnae scream per se, but they make that fockin' _noise_ —such a noise, fer a fockin' _horse_ , donnae make sense. There's the selkies, too, but I dunnae that they'll be making much of a bark at this hour. And they're more by the sea, anyhow. Salt water creatures and such…"

Somehow able to keep up with every bit of Sean's rambling and writing all of it down, Ford hardly paid attention as the group traipsed through the forest. The task fell to Stan to keep his brother from tripping over stray roots or running into thick brush, though he did let a branch smack him in the back of the head once for his own amusement. Colorful lights flickered amidst the leaves, sometimes accompanied by laughter ("fockin' pixies, always having a giggle, donnae pay them mind"); glimpses of darker creatures flitted about their peripherals ("It's like a Hide-Behind, Stanley!"). Sean's commentary, contrary to his near silence on the Stan o' War II, never ceased. He had something to say about every creature in the strangely springtime forest, something personal, oftentimes.

Odd, for someone who had never ventured beyond the shore. Stan kept the comment to himself, at least for the moment.

The sun lingered high overhead by the time the three reached the river. Ford was beside himself with giddiness, his pen pausing only long enough for him to properly align his thoughts with the new scene before him.

Calm water trickled downstream, bubbling complacently. Various creatures milled about, their bodies glistening in the midday sun, totally unperturbed by their new observers. Ford readily identified a few common fish and perching bird species; he nearly squealed in delight on recognizing a kelpie pattering beneath the water's surface. The mythical ecosystem visible in the river fascinated him.

"Do they live amongst themselves peaceably?" Ford asked as he began doodling.

"You can call it that," Sean murmured. His eyes casually surveyed the river. "Most serpents eat fish and such. Kelpies are carnivorous, though. Like to feed on land creatures, mostly—some kinda show of dominance or summat. Grindylow tend to eat fish, but will go fer anything they can get their hands on. Bastard shellycoat donnae eat flesh—just likes killing stupid things, I guess."

Stan saw his brother note "Shellycoats like to kill stupid things" in his journal. He fought the urge to laugh.

"Sorta like a regular ecosystem, really." Sean set himself on the riverbank in a patch of sun. "You'll be taking some time for doodling in yer journal, there, then?"

Ford didn't answer; he'd become completely fixated on his work. Words and images materialized on the paper, hardly able to keep up with his racing thoughts. He found a reasonably comfortable patch of grass near the water's edge, collapsed onto it, and fell into silent productivity.

"He's not going to get eaten by anything, sitting there, right?" Stan sat beside Sean, watching Ford carefully.

"Nah." Sean tucked his knees up to his chest, resting his chin atop them. "Shellycoats are nocturnal, and I donnae think Stanford'll be moving enough to catch the attention of the grindylow. Kelpie wonnae mind him less he minds them."

"Huh." Stan laid back into the grass. Overhead, the clouds drifted by lazily. He may as settle; Ford would keep them there for hours if they let him.


	5. A Sight for Sore Eyes

" _What're you on about?"_

" _My family donnae think I'm dead!"_

" _Who said they did?"_

" _You!"_

" _I never said anything like that!"_

" _Ya did!"_

" _I didnae! You're fockin' crazy!"_

" _I am not!"_

" _Look, if you wanna go, door's there, barra. You can leave whenever you wannae. No one's stopping you. Go if you like. I donnae care. But, y'know, you wonnae."_

" _Donnae think so?"_

" _Nah. Too good. Leeching offa me, not doing a damn thing—too good. You need me. Cannae care for yerself. Nowhere to go."_

"…"

"…"

" _I donnae need you."_

"… _I…donnae…"_

" _If you donnae need me, if you wanna go, door's there, barra. Can go whenever ya like. But you didnae. Must be happy, right?"_

" _Happy? Happy fighting all the time? Happy with all the horrid things you say to meh?"_

" _Dunnae what yer on about. If you were unhappy, you'd leave. Be totally loony otherwise."_

" _I'm not loony."_

" _Then yer happy."_

* * *

Sean had infinitely less to say as he led the Pines further northward. Ford had wanted to see as many of the island's creatures as he could, "and the day is still so young!", and the guide couldn't help but oblige. He was trying, Stan could tell, but his tells were glaring; it was a wonder that Ford didn't notice himself.

"These woods are littered with fae," Sean informed, just loud enough for the twins to hear. His fingers played with the brim of his knit cap; his left hand hadn't let it alone for the duration of their journey. "Some bauchan, too. Small lot, but still there. Nocturnal, typically. Donnae much care fer humans."

Ford noted everything Sean said assiduously; fortunately, his apprehensions provided the scientist with the opportunity to doodle more of the forest and some of the creatures that hadn't been found by the river.

"And…and yer sure you wanna see the northside beach?" Stan counted four times now that Sean had asked.

"Of course!" Stan counted four times now that Ford hadn't noticed their guide's discomfort. Ford did spare a passing glance, though more as way of affirming his conviction. "If that's where the cryptids are, that's where we must go."

"Makes sense." Sean folded in on himself visibly. "I did tell you lot that it's, erm, more dangerous there, didnae? More things what wanna eat you and…"

"I think we're more than capable of handling ourselves." Ford shot his brother a knowing smile. Stan had to return it, missing Sean's unsettled frown. "What lives up there that has you so spooked?"

A yelping bark of a laugh unintentionally tumbled from Sean's lips. "A bit o' this and that. There's-there's selkies and ceasg—y'know, nothing frightening—they'll have more fear of you than you of them—but…then there's some other things." His eyes shifted, not as if in a lie, more like a stalked beast. "Finfolk and knuckers and sharks and serpents and undines—"

"Sharks? At the beach?"

Sean blinked. "Er, near the beach, I guess."

"Hm. Interesting." Ford's pen began scratching at the journal's pages again. Considering the information, Ford mused to himself the details that Sean seemed unwilling to provide. "We're pretty far north. Perhaps they're Greenland sharks. Maybe Makos—well, no, those are more of a summer shark…"

"They're White Death." He tugged at his knit cap. "Near got ate by one as a lad."

"Is that why you're so jumpy?" Stan suggested. At Sean's start, he shook his head. "You've been twitching like the cops are after you."

His response was an uncomfortable laugh. Perturbed, the twins exchanged a silent glance, saying nothing as they continued to follow their guide. None spoke for the duration of their trek through the woods.

* * *

By the time they reached the brush at the edge of the forest, to Ford's eyes, Sean had regained his composure (though Stan continued to eye the Scotsman with uncertainty). He stopped them before they could emerge onto the black sand beach.

"Now, Stanford, Stanley." His voice pitched lower than usual, conspiratorially quiet, not wanting to be overheard. "Ways over there—hear that chatter?" They did, but only barely. "Ways over there's a herd of selkie. Painfully shy, afraid of humans. Donnae go near them—donnae wanna startle them none. It's best to make yer notes from here, and when you've had yer fill, we can lookit the other creatures."

Ford's brow furrowed. He glanced to where the chattering originated, then to Stan, and frowned. At Stan's equally confused stare, he turned back to Sean. "I don't see anything."

Sean matched Ford's perturbed frown. He looked away momentarily, considering. "I guess we can get a bit closer…" His eyes scanned the beach, searching for a proper hiding spot. "Like I said, terrified of humans. Not necessarily best of hearing, but damn good eyes, like any other seal. Key is, donnae stay too close to their skins. They'll panic, y'know, might get hurt."

Unspeaking, Ford scribbled everything in his journal.

"There's…here, thisaway." He crept along the tree line, keeping himself hidden in the brush; Ford and Stan followed in his footsteps, slightly louder, but not noisy enough to earn comment. The place he led them had a far superior view of the beach: now, not only could the twins see a surprisingly large crowd of people cavorting near the water, but they could also make out a community of seals playing in the surf. When they settled into their lurking spot, a cloud of colorful pixies shot out from the bushes and fled into the forest.

Stan cursed quietly under his breath. He should have caught one for Mabel.

"What interesting behavior," Ford murmured, watching the water. "I didn't think seals were so comfortable around humans."

Sean hushed them, his pitch still low. "Donnae wanna frighten them." Once the twins acknowledged his suggestion, he continued. "All selkies, the lot of them. See, lookit there, folded up in the sand?" Truthfully, no, they couldn't quite tell what it was that he pointed to; if they squinted, though, they could see a mass of dark grey something against the similarly-colored sand. "Skins. When they wear them, they become seals—like you see there, in the water. Need ta be to get back here or to the underwater colony. Otherwise…"

 _Otherwise, they're stuck in human society. They yearn for the sea, often to the point of physical malady. Selkies cannot return without their skins, being unable to survive in the ocean as humans and incapable of reaching the underwater society. (Perhaps this underwater selkie society has some affiliation with other Atlantean myths?) Should someone steal a selkie's skin, said selkie will follow; most tales tell of the selkie marrying the human and living out their lives in somber complacency until it inevitably finds its skin and returns to the ocean._

 _Finfolk_

 _A fascinating species, native only to the Orcadian islands. Sorcerous shapeshifters, they apparently raid human villages in the spring and summer months to kidnap husbands or wives, only to forever entrap the poor humans here on Hildaland (or in some underwater civilization like that of the selkie—I wonder if they started as the same story). These kidnapped humans are forced to live out their lives here and do various chores for the Finfolk. Not the worst fate that could befall a human, I suppose, but unpleasant nevertheless._

 _Ceasg_

 _This subspecies of mer-person is half woman, half salmon. Said to grant three wishes to anyone who catches her. The ceasg just looks horrifically uncanny. ("They're the scariest thing in the ocean, Sixer, hands-down.")_

 _Undine_

 _These creatures can be found in numerous places where anomalies gather, and this island is no exception. There seems to be nothing striking about these water spirits, other than the fact that they enjoy rollicking in the waves instead of lurking in freshwater lakes or rivers. We weren't able to get close enough to discern their facial features, but Sean has assured us that they're quite pretty. He also claims that they're playful creatures, but far better friends than romantic partners._

* * *

Ford sat at his desk, finishing the rough sketches he'd begun on land, the single desk lamp providing all the light in the cabin. Darkness had settled in surprisingly quickly, but he wasn't at all tired from the day's hike; in fact, he felt quite energized, determined to complete the dozens of new journal entries. He worked silently as Stan and Sean, both exhausted from their trek, readied themselves for sleep.

Stan collapsed onto the bottom bunk, letting gravity control most of his descent so he landed with a hearty thump. Once comfortably settled, he grabbed his harmonica off of the desk (so convenient that it rested right behind his head); he played a few arbitrary notes, trying to decide on a song. At the foot of the bunk beds, as he had for the past few days, Sean sat with his back against the bannister, swaddled in his far-too-large sweatshirt. His eyes remained open, though distant. He responded to any of Ford's questions whenever prompted (though those were fewer and farther between when the scientist became engrossed in his journal); he'd jerk whenever Stan hit a sour note on the harmonica. For the moment, as Stan hummed out a soft tune and Ford fell into silence and Sean just listened, everything was zen on the Stan o' War II.

Only for the moment.

Stan huffed into the harmonica, the note particularly loud and shrill. At Sean's violent flail of surprise, he offered a conciliary smile. "Sorry, kid," he murmured apologetically. He made no such concessions to his frazzled brother, who had the look of a startled owl.

"Stanley, God, are you trying to give me a heart attack?" Ford ran his hand through his hair, fluffing it in a way that resembled ruffled feathers.

Stan chose not to comment and instead placed the harmonica back on the table behind him. "What's the word, Sixer? What's the plan?"

Irritable, Ford readjusted his glasses. He shot his brother a glare before speaking. "Well, Stanley, I suppose we'll be exploring the island some more. I know there's no treasure to pique your interest—" Stan snorted a laugh "—but there are plenty of creatures I haven't yet been able to document, and I'd like to get a closer look."

"How big do you think this place is?"

"Based on today's venture…" Ford sat back in his chair, considering. "From the north shore to the Stan o' War II, we walked for perhaps forty-five minutes, an hour at most. Must have been about three miles around from the north side…assuming the island is regularly-shaped—"

"Don't know why you'd make that assumption." A wry smirk curled Stan's lip. "This is a strange anomaly, after all."

"True." Ford either missed his brother's jest or elected to ignore it. "I wouldn't imagine it to be more than a few square miles. We may be able to cover the rest of it tomorrow. With a cursory glance, of course; extended studies could be done for months, perhaps years."

"Yeesh, Sixer, we hired Sean for a week." Stretching, Stan twisted to better meet his brother's less than amused frown. "Besides, we have to be back in California for the kids' winter break."

Ford made an interested noise. "Has it really been that long?"

"I don't know how you want me to answer that."

"Don't get smart, Stanley, it doesn't suit you."

"Can it, Poindexter." Stan tossed himself into a more comfortable position, one that required much less torque to maintain. "Just make sure we don't forget to catch a pixie for Mabel."

"She wanted a fairy."

"You're the expert."

Ford shook his head. "Maybe not _the_ expert, though _an_ expert, certainly." His pointed look traveled to their suspiciously quiet Scotsman. "You've been a surprising wealth of knowledge, Sean. I'm impressed."

There was no response.

"Sean?"

Still nothing.

Raising his voice, Stan repeated, "Sean?"

Sean yelped, jumped, attempted to flail, got caught in his sweatshirt, lost his balance, and wound up in a heap on the floor, completely lost. His senses returned quickly; shortly thereafter, he managed to disentangle himself and sit up properly. A grogginess remained on his face. "Sorry, sleeping, didnae hear ya."

"If there was anyone in the world with worse hearing than me, it'd be you, kid," Stan told him, stifling a laugh. "Ford was just saying how helpful you've been."

"Eh? Er, I guess." He yawned, rubbing his eyes. "Thanks?"

"I mean—"

"You _do_ sleep with your eyes open!" Ford practically leapt out of his seat, startling both Stan and Sean. "I knew it!"

Sean blinked stupidly at him. "Yea? Easier to spot predators 'r summat."

Ford's hand twitched for his pen.


	6. Redacted

" _I'm not off, Abby, I'm not. I dunnae…dunnae what's wrong. I feel…foggy? I dunnae, that's not…"_

"…"

" _I have to go."_

"…"

" _You moved mah bin. I dunnae where. I wanted ta take it…"_

"…"

" _I need to put mah head back together. Dunnae what's what. I just—I just wanna figure that out, y'know?"_

"…"

" _You'll be here when I come back? You wonnae disappear?"_

"…"

" _You'll have mah bin?"_

"…"

" _You'll have it."_

"…"

" _You'll give it back if I ask."_

"…"

" _You will, wonnae? If I…am I gonna ask? I…dunnae. Dunnae. Cannae…I cannae think right now. I'm not…am I really off? And I just dunnae?"_

"…"

" _I feel like I'm addled, here. I'll…I'll see if I'm off. Maybe…maybe with some space…I can figure out what thoughts are mine. If…y'know, if any of 'em are. Maybe they're not. Whose thoughts are in mah head? Mine? Yours? I dunnae…"_

"…"

"… _I dunnae, either."_

"…"

" _I'm going. Before ya wake. I'll be back…when I get mahself in order. Er, if I get mahself in order. Donnae fret."_

* * *

"Would you be more upset if we didn't catch a fairy for you, or if it were dead?" Stan was asking, doing his best not to appear suspicious, despite the video picking up his guilty shift.

Mabel's smile faltered for only a moment while she considered. "I'd probably be less traumatized if you just didn't catch one, instead of bringing me a dead one."

"Good news, pumpkin! Great Uncle Ford here got so wrapped up in his research that he forgot to catch you a fairy—"

"Don't put the blame on me, Stanley." Ford punched his brother in the arm. "You're the one who wanted to catch the ceasg, and that took all afternoon!"

"A what?" Dipper eagerly clicked his pen, pulling out a blue journal.

"A ceasg," Ford explained as he reached for his own journal, resting on the desk behind him. "It's an elusive class of mermaid that seems to be indigenous only to this region: half human, half salmon—"

"Only women," Sean corrected from the cabin's doorway. Busy wringing out his hat, he didn't notice the eyes of the entire Pines family shift to him. He replaced his cap and sloshed his way to the bathroom, carrying on primarily to himself. "Lure sailors or summat. Dumb, really, seeing how they donnae wanna be caught. Guess being half-fish donnae make you too bright, none." The door clicked shut behind him.

Ford nodded, drawing attention back to the conversation. "It's said they grant wishes to whoever catches them." His great nephew scribbled down the information. "Unfortunately, Stan and I were unable to confirm that particular myth. They're quite…slippery."

Stan snorted at the joke. "Awful, Poindexter, just awful."

Rolling his eyes, Ford put a hand up to separate him from his brother so he could chat with the children in the illusion of privacy. "Stan's grumpy because he was outsmarted by a few fish."

"Don't lie, Sixer, they outfoxed you, too!"

"It sounds like you found a lot of new creatures," Dipper awed, looking up from his notes. "I can't wait to hear all your stories!"

"When are you gonna be here?" Mabel's question had a hint of a whine. She shifted the phone so the camera centered on her face. "We miss you! Waddles especially!"

"We'll be there by Christmas," Stan assured, glossing over the reference to the pig (toward whom he still had ambiguous feelings). "Don't worry—"

In the distant background of the phone call, a bell rang. Mabel frowned; over her shoulder, Stan and Ford could see Dipper panic.

"Mabel, we're late!"

"Again? Aw, man."

"Go to class, kids," Ford instructed, his tone taking an authoritarian note. "We'll call you later in the week."

The younger twins nodded. "Bye Grunkle Stan! Bye Grunkle Ford!"

"Bye, kids!"

The video call ended, bringing the phone back to the home screen. Stan pocketed the device before collapsing back against his chair. "You think they're gonna get in trouble for being late, again?"

"Hopefully not. I'll send the school an email—some story about a family matter, they shouldn't ask too many questions." Ford dropped his journal on the desk, flipping through the most recent pages.

"Wow, Sixer, lying to a school? Never thought I'd see the day."

Coughing, Ford adjusted his glasses. "It's not lying, per se, as long as I don't clarify what precisely the family matter is…"

The door clicked open again; Sean shuffled out of the bathroom, drowning in one of Ford's sweaters, mussed hair still damp. He moved to the kitchenette, careful not to trip over the far too long sweatpants he managed to secure around his waist.

"Raining?" Stan asked as he sat up.

"Nae." Sean rummaged through the cabinet, nabbing the bottle of whisky and a glass. Chattering slightly, he downed a shot before pouring himself a glass proper. "Stopped by the time I came in, y'know."

Stan held out a hand, which Sean shortly filled with a glass. "Everything good out there?"

"To mah eye, yea." Sean dropped into the open chair. "Bairnes doing well?"

"Yeah. I guess high school is going well enough."

"Prolly they'd rather be out here with you lot."

Stan chuckled. "I'm sure they would. Dipper's secretly jealous of you—exploring with The Author, teaching him about weird creatures—how do you know so much about these things, anyway?" He sipped at his drink, casual. "You learn it in school or something?"

"Didnae go to school," Sean muttered into his drink. Uncomfortably, he took a sip, mulling over the warm liquor. "I, er, didnae…" His eyes flicked across the cabin to Ford, who had ceased flipping through his journal to eavesdrop. "I didnae live with people but fer the past five years."

Stan said nothing, peering over his glass in anticipation of an explanation.

* * *

" _Before I start, I'm telling you the ending: I'm not going back to Aberdeen." Sean was firm in that statement, and he was sure that we understood that before telling us his story. Initially, he was evasive with the details, but partway into the second bottle of whisky, his tongue loosened; he wove a colorful tale._

A section of the page had been blotted out beyond distinction.

 _I had planned to recount the story here, but, following Stanley's advice, I decided that it would be inappropriate to commit it to paper, even in redacted form. Should my research ever be released for academic or public consumption, it may be in poor taste to leave his personal details here._

 _That being prefaced, however, Sean did give us some intimate details of daily selkie life in Hildaland, and some explanation for his…oddity._

A series of detailed drawings followed—all the subtle visual clues that could be used to distinguish a selkie without skin from a particularly fetching human. Slightly smaller ears and noses, larger eyes, wobbly or flailing movements on land (though quite fluid and graceful in the water, even with legs), elongated appendages (most noticeable in fingers and toes). Though Sean was the rare exception, selkies usually had pitch-black eyes. A note added that selkies often fixated on at least one article of clothing that sat snug against the body, imitating the second skin normally worn.

 _As can be seen on the earlier drawing, Sean hardly went without his knit cap. Though he did nothing to explain why his everyday clothes could have fit Stanley or me comfortably._

A list of features followed, doodles of seals decorating the corners of that page _:_

 _Hearing range mostly overlaps with humans', on the higher end. Lower tones and frequencies are more difficult to hear. According to Sean, selkies often seem to be hard of hearing because of this; it would explain his sharp reactions to the harmonica's sour notes._

 _Keen eyesight. ("I bet they can see into people's minds—it'd be real easy to scam people with vision like that." -Stan)_

 _Penchant for seafood, though capable of consuming the same foods any human can._

 _Age at a slower rate—just part of their magical youth properties._

 _Navigate with senses unknown in humans. Sean had no words to properly describe it (all he could manage to say was that he could "feel" Hildaland one way or another), but the methodology is the same that migratory seals use to return to their breeding grounds. I'll have to do further research on the matter; perhaps it's related to reading the earth's magnetic field, as with other migratory animals?_

 _Sleep upright, whether sitting or standing, as seals sleep vertically in the water. Also sleep with eyes open, at half brain functionality, to keep lookout for predators._

 _Strangely, selkies have no method to track their own skins; the magical seal skin, which transforms them when on their bodies, is little different than any other article of clothing. They do have some fixation on it that should prevent them from leaving whatever person is in possession of it. Based on Sean's story, I believe the fixation isn't physical (the only physical "harm" that comes to a selkie for losing its skin is the psychosomatic pain of yearning for home); rather this fixation is psychological in nature. A selkie fools itself into thinking it must remain with whoever possesses its skin so that one day it might get it back. As the particulars of Sean's account indicate, a selkie is completely capable of leaving the human who possesses its skin, should it so choose._

Dipper flipped through the pages of notes Ford had accumulated over the last few months, fascinated. He'd tuned out ages ago from the conversation his sister dominated with their grunkles; now, having finished his third read-through of the new journal pages, he looked up. Mabel was in the process of reenacting her dramatic founding of their high school's knitting club (to her credit, the story was far more interesting than it sounded). Stan and Ford sat back on the couch, each holding a glass of eggnog, enjoying the epic unfolding before them. On Stan's other side, between his seat and Mabel's currently abandoned chair, Waddles napped happily, only opening an eye when Mabel screeched.

"And that's how I convinced the principal to let me found the knitting club," Mabel finished, beaming. She held out her arms so their grunkles could fully appreciate her painfully patterened sweater. "That's why it's got a leprechaun tap dancing on Ronald Reagan's grave while getting struck by lightning."

"Makes sense," Stan answered. He sipped from his eggnog. "You did good, stickin' it to the man."

"You shouldn't break into your principal's house," Ford said with a frown. "You could get into trouble. And it's dangerous to rappel from a 10-story apartment building without proper training."

"She pulled it off, Sixer, and that's all that matters."

Ford pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. "That's not the point."

Before the older twins could truly start bickering, Dipper saw his chance to jump in. "Hey, Grunkle Ford?"

"Yes, Dipper?"

He hopped out of his chair and put himself into the space between Ford and the couch's armrest, allowing him to prop up Journal 4 between them. A bit unsure, he pointed to the only blacked-out section in the volume. "What did you have written here?"

Ford read over the page with a frown. "Ah. That was…" He adjusted his glasses, taking a moment to calculate his words. "That was originally Sean's account of his journey from Hildaland to our encounter in the pub." Guilty, his eyes met Stan's momentarily before returning to Dipper's. "It was improprietous of me to commit a personal story like that to my scientific study."

Mabel popped up on the far side of the couch, peering over her brother's shoulder. "Aw, man, I wanted to hear more about him. He was dreamy."

Fortunately, their grunkles were distracted enough with Mabel's comment to allow Dipper to pose a question and startle an answer out of them. He pointed out a particular passage, just below the redacted section. "It says here that he didn't want to go back to Aberdeen, but didn't you say he told you he was from Kirkwall?"

"Yeah, what gives?"

Dipper hushed his sister.

"He was never in Aberdeen." Ford pulled his journal from Dipper's lap, reading over the passage in question, brow furrowed. If he'd noted anything incorrectly—

"No, you got it all down right," Stan said. His brother, great nephew, and great niece looked turned to him. "Aberdeen's the girl that had his skin."

Mabel frowned. "Then why wasn't he with her?"

Neither Stan nor Ford answered her. Both shifted uncomfortably, looking everywhere else in the room. Stan, fortunately, chanced to glance out the window, and a smile came to his face.

"Hey, look, it's snowing."

As he hoped, Mabel took the bait. She lit up and bounced to her feet. "Oh! Let's go play in the snow—we can build a snowman, and a fort, and make snow angels—!" Squealing in delight, she snared Dipper by the arm and dragged him over to the coat rack. She dumped all the coats and hats and gloves and scarves onto him, dove into the pile, and fished out her own things. "Grunkle Stan! Grunkle Ford! Come on! We have to build the best snowman ever before Mom and Dad get home with Grandpa Shermie!"

The older twins exchanged a glance, silently sighing in relief. Before their great niece could again command them, they got to their feet.

"Coming, pumpkin."

Four coats, four hats, eight gloves, and eight boots later, two sets of twins stood in front of the suburban house. The snow came down hard, already covering the yard with a healthy dusting of dense whiteness. It only remained perfectly undisturbed for a moment: Mabel almost immediately darted into the middle of the yard, mouth wide open to the heavens to catch the falling snowflakes; Dipper trailed right after her, making the same face and the same noise. Stan nudged Ford. The pair grinned and chased after the kids, all four happily collapsing in the middle of the yard.

It was soft snow, fluffy, cushioning them as they fell. Good packing snow. Perfect for snowmen, perfect for forts, and perfect for—

A snowball pelted Ford in the side of the head. He searched for its origin, wholly unsurprised to find Stan ready to throw another one at him. Smirking, Ford packed a snowball of his own.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I fought in the Great Snowball War of Tundra Planet 43?"

"What?"


End file.
